A Hero
by Chronomentrophobia
Summary: The life of a hero, before there were actually any. A story in six parts.


**A/N: This is something I've been sitting on since _While Guthix Sleeps_ came out. You can have it; I'm tossing it at you. **

* * *

**A Hero****  
****By Chronomentrophobia**  
_Because, one fine day, my efforts might be appreciated._

* * *

_this is how a hero is born_

When you meet him for the first time, what you feel is jealousy: a deep, abiding sense of unfairness and vindictiveness when he bumps his head on the hard marble lintel on his way into your parents' low-ceilinged home.

His name is Misalionar, and he's tall enough to see over the top of your head.

It's _so_ unfair that he's that much taller than you, and when he turns eager eyes to you, you scowl at him.

Misalionar leaves after a while, pulling the hood of his grass-green cloak over his head, and you fervently hope you never see him again, because he's the tallest person you've ever met.

* * *

_this is how a hero makes friends_

When you are sixteen, Misalionar comes around again. This time you're confident enough in your still-growing stature to offer him tea, because your parents are in the garden and you're grown-up enough to make your own meals and slaughter the ever-ubitquitous chickens that wander about in your front yard.

"Where are your Mum and Dad?" he asks you, after praising the rows of green shoots that grow on your fence, your well-stocked and orderly pantry, and your aptitude (what is ap-i-tude?) for making tea nice and hot.

"In the garden," you say, wrinkling your nose as he adds a good half jug of milk to his tea. You like neither milk nor tea.

He looks at you sadly, taking a sip of his murky-brown tea. Makes a face, chokes it out. You can't help but grin a little at that, although it's the epitome of impoliteness. Serves him right for putting so much of something disgusting into something even more disgusting. As your mother used to say, two wrongs don't make a right. Still, you strain your short (not short; he's still so _tall_) arms to pat his back sympathetically. You were raised with manners, after all.

"Perhaps, my little friend," he says after he's settled down a bit, "you'd like to travel?"

You shrug and study the grain of the rough kitchen table with sudden interest. "Why would I? It's not like I would. Even if I could, of course."

Misalionar's smile stretches wide. "I know someone."

* * *

_this is how a hero learns to be heroic_

Misalionar's other friend's name is Jack and he's _also_ taller than you, which you don't like so much, but he's still shorter than Misalionar, so he's not as bad. You welcome him into your house and make him hot honey instead of tea while Misalionar pokes around in the garden. Misalionar says he wants to pay his respects to nature, but you suspect that he just wants to thieve fruit from the trees in the back.

"So," Jacks says, staring down at his honey like it can tell him the secrets of the future. Maybe it can; you've never really understood how runes worked, and Misalionar never talked much about magic in your company, just about the tea. "You want to travel?"

"Mmhmm," you reply noncommittally, and hasten to add, "I like my home, though."

Jack leans forward excitedly. "If you learn magic you could return here whenever you want. I'm working on something, and I need an assistant."

"Drink your honey," you say.

* * *

_this is how a hero becomes renowned_

Misalionar never seems to age, even as Jack's hair grays, and then falls out. (His beard turns white, and grows ever longer, which he thinks is a sign of dignity. You mock him when you have time to teleport over to his infant Guild for any half-cocked reason.)

You don't age, either. You remain as you were at sixteen, eighteen, twenty, ineloquent and awkward and gangly, but at your farm-roughened hands killing chickens becomes slaying monsters and copper turns to burnished iron. You don't question it until Jack comes to find you in your kitchen one day.

"Hot honey?" you ask, and reach for the pot.

"I want your help," Jack says.

"Oh, goodie," you say. You reach for the pot. "Let's have some hot honey first."

* * *

_and this is how a hero dies_

Your head is fuzzy like your vision and the sticky blood soaking through your clothing is cooling. You squint up at the dim ceiling and try to remember: there was a stone and then there was a god – or was there?

There was even a dragon-like thing or two. You like that. All heroes should have dragons in their stories. Dragons and a little house with fruit trees laden heavy in the back, but it's been years since you last saw your little house. Had hot honey with Jack, who was old even before this quest started and you met everyone you're good friends now, good friends that came here with you. Where are they? You begin to crane your head, but–

Ow.

Your armour is pinching you, and it feels freezing and half-numb, like you can only acknowledge the sensation distantly. Your heart thuds against your chest, because this is _your_ flesh and _you can't feel it, you can't feel-_

"There's a survivor!" someone cries. It's a jarring callback to the bloodcurdling screams and groans echoing in these cavernous depths before the magical crossfire of fire and death ground down. You regret joining battle; it was a war that wasn't even yours to begin with.

You cough despite the terrible sensation of something important dislodging itself from your chest wall. It's no use: your throat has seized up for some reason and you can only croak like a bullfrog in heat. "Don't shout."

Scrabbling in the sand, something green: your eyes shutter and dim. "You're–"

"I told you, manners maketh the man."

The laughter is shaky and more choked than your throat. You sigh at the silence that falls and do your best to shift a little, away from your pinching armour and leaking blood. Dying is really cold and uncomfortable.

"I'm sure it is," the interlocutor says.

You know him from somewhere with smiles and good simple times, but your mind is drifting back to your kitchen, where Misalionar towers over you and Jack pats your head, unbowed (and unbaldened) by age.

You want to go home. "I want a good coffin," you wheeze. Your lungs are losing breath faster than you can regain it. "Crystal, even."

Whoever it is doesn't seem to hear you. They're saying something, dimmer to your ears than the tide you're hearing.

The sea comes in and doesn't wash out.

.

.

"_Oh, and the other days someone else was talking about how much they missed you. How you used to light the place up with your laughter, but it's all gone now. But you know that better than any of us!_"


End file.
